


Filthy Habit

by sunspot (unavoidedcrisis)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: And Other Dirty Habits, Drinking, M/M, Pre-Slash, Smoking, Voyeurism, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27218326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unavoidedcrisis/pseuds/sunspot
Summary: Everyone's got their bad habits, their vices. Some of Arthur's may be a bit more eclectic, but even he enjoys a smoke here and there.
Kudos: 16





	Filthy Habit

Arthur watches sometimes when he knows he ought not to. Like tonight.

Everyone's been a little tense lately, so Dutch hauls out a cask of solidly middle-shelf whiskey and declares it a party.

People are loosening up, maybe even edging into 'pleasantly inebriated' territory. Arthur pours another two fingers for himself and settles a bit out of the way to watch.

No one has suggested a bare-knuckle boxing tourney yet, so they can't be that drunk, but it's comfortable-drunk. Hosea is spouting something that could be poetry, Molly is swaying to the music of the gramophone and trying to convince everyone to come dance with her, and Karen's produced a few bottles of wine from somewhere.

That's what draws Arthur's gaze to that side of camp.

Charles takes the wine passed to him, his fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle. Arthur watches very carefully when Charles lifts the bottle to his lips and tips his head back to take a long drink, muscles in his throat working under the skin like a goddamn piece of living art.

Arthur watches a bit longer, long enough to see Mary-Beth playfully smack Charles on the arm and take the bottle from him. She says something Arthur can't hear over the noise, but then Charles lets out a bright, honest laugh that cuts through the hum of a night of drinking in camp.

He turns away after that, feeling antsy for reasons he probably could name, but again, ought not to. 

Maybe it's more truthful to say he turns away for a minute or two.

When Arthur looks again, drawn as if by magnet, Charles has moved a bit. Arthur's looking at his profile, head bowed to light a cigarette. He watches him take a deep drag, holding his breath for a moment afterwards. Arthur commits the entire moment to memory -- the campfire lighting up his eyes, the way he cradles the lit cigarette carefully in two fingers, the way his mouth twists into the hint of a smile listening to Karen's nonsense.

Charles opens his mouth, laughing again and the smoke escapes in a haze. He takes another drag and the process starts anew.

Arthur becomes rapidly and uncomfortably aware of the hardening of his cock in his jeans. He slams the rest of his whiskey and stands to go find John.

"Go back to Abigail, I'll take watch," he says motioning back towards camp. John eyes him warily.

"You haven't done watch in years,"

"Yeah, and I must miss it. Git going."

If John notices anything seems off, he doesn't say it. Not that he probably notices.

Arthur shakes his head, trying to rattle the mental images out, to free his mind of what he saw while he was… 'spying's a bit harsh, but 'keenly observing' left out the full truth. Doesn't matter what he calls it, those images are burned into his mind's eye.

Something as innocuous as Charles smoking a cigarette had led to… yeah. Arthur wonders if he's just been alone too long or if he was starting to go loopy in the head for another reason.

Watch is mostly blissfully boring, but right around two a.m., there's noise from camp approaching.

"Okay, John, I -- Arthur. Hi."

"Charles," Arthur says. He's a lot more calm now, not like he was a few hours before. The cool night air and the relative quiet of night watch has soothed him, dampened the fire he'd felt earlier.

"Wasn't expecting you."

Arthur could absolutely say the same. He slings his rifle over his shoulder.

"Thought it'd be nice for John to spend some time with Abigail."

Charles nods his agreement. "Sure, plenty nice." He regards Arthur closely, and Arthur feels a pang of something in his chest. Guilt maybe, over his earlier peeping (no, peeping ain't the right word either). Or it's a pang of hope that Charles... _watches_ people like Arthur does.

"Are you normally so nice, or was there a reason you didn't want to stick around?"

How was he so damn smart?

"I saw Micah and Dutch all but sneaking around. Micah looked real thrilled about something."

Arthur snorts. "Oh good, I'm sure that won't come back an' bite us in the ass."

Charles gives him a little smile. "No doubt. Now, you're officially free to go, I've got it from here."

"Thanks," Arthur says. He wants to get back to his tent. He doesn't want to spend any more of his night watching Charles. Or. He does, very much want that, but knows he shouldn't, knows he can't. 

_Still,_ his stupid traitorous brain thinks. Without conscious thought, Arthur slides a hand into his back pocket and comes out with a battered pack of smokes.

He pulls one out for himself, knowing he's burning time for the sake of it, and offers one to Charles. He accepts one too, that small smile still present. Arthur tries hard not to watch the deftness with which Charles strikes a match, produced from thin air, and lights his own. He shakes the match out and tosses the stick. Arthur had been in the process of leaning in to share the match, but Charles catches him by the shoulder, redirecting.

Arthur lit his cigarette off the red-orange glow of Charles', leaning in way too close, with one of Charles' hand still firmly on his shoulder and the other on his wrist, holding the cigarette steady.

"Thanks," he says, on a breath out. It comes out too rough and he feels stars behind his eyes more than he sees them. Arthur bites back a cough. A cigarette hasn't made him cough, hasn't made his voice over-gruff like this since his first or second time smoking, and that felt like a century ago.

"Yeah," Charles says, finally releasing his shoulder. "'Night," he adds, and if Arthur could accurately tell time in the haze his mind is in, he would have thought it was far too long a pause.

"G'night."

On his trudge back to his tent, the forgotten cigarette fizzles down to nothing, burning Arthur's fingers. He curses and drops it, stamping the butt into the mud.

"Better off quittin', if that's your attitude," Sean says, catching Arthur's eye. His words are slurred and warm under the accent. Arthur chuckles dryly; like he could ever quit now. He's got too many confusing, tempting feelings about smoking these days to ever give it up. Just striking a match is going to be enough to make him moan.

But if his habit of people-watching -- Charles-watching -- leads to many more burnt fingers and narrowly-avoided erections in the middle of camp, he's going to have to quit that habit. Arthur tips his hat over his face to block out the remaining lights from camp and lets sleep find him with a head full of smoky memories.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't blame me, blame Jealous of Your Cigarette, by Hawksley Workman.


End file.
